


A Certain Appeal

by UbiquitousMixie



Category: The Closer
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/pseuds/UbiquitousMixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sharon’s had a little too much to drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Certain Appeal

“Last call!”

The two words rang out over the chatter of people, echoing loudly in Sharon Raydor’s head. She registered the warning and issued a scowl so lethal, so scathing, that the bartender actually took a step backward. She snorted into her glass which was, to her dismay, empty. 

Catching the bartender’s eye, she raised her glass and gave it a shake, the ice clinking solemnly—the way that ice did when it was no longer in the company of a stiff drink. “I’ll take another.” 

The bartender shot her a disapproving stare but poured the bourbon anyway. “Want me to call you a cab, lady?” 

She furrowed her brow. She wanted to tell him that she was, in fact, no lady, but was in no mood to humor the “you don’t look like a man to me” conversation she’d overheard him have with a pretty young thing earlier in the evening. “I’ve got it.” She pressed her thumb against the screen, pursing her lips when the screen did not unlock. She tried again and noticed three seconds too late that her phone had landed in her drink. “Oh fuck me,” she groaned, plucking her phone from the glass. She looked down at her little black dress, contemplating wiping it against the material to dry it off. It needed to be dry cleaned anyway.

“I’ve got a towel,” the bartender chimed helpfully, taking the phone from her hands. “And I’m gonna call you that ride.” 

She sighed and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Fine.” She sipped from her iPhone flavored beverage, too drunk to notice the kick of the liquor as it burned down her throat. She took in one deep breath and then another, her lungs filling with the acrid stench of stale smoke and cheap perfume, and closed her eyes. 

This was not how her night was supposed to go. Had things gone according to plan, her date would not have been a droll, sexist prick; had he simply kept his mouth shut during the appetizer of their meal at an upscale French bistro, she would have presently been fucking him through her mattress rather than getting drunk by herself on a Thursday night. 

That seemed to be her lot in life: the prettiest men were always the most misogynistic. For that matter, the prettiest women were often allergic to feminism. She heaved a woeful sigh into her glass. 

All she had wanted was to get laid. Was that too much to ask? 

Green eyes scanned the bar once more in a futile attempt to spot someone—anyone—that was even remotely appealing. She had discriminating tastes and she wasn’t nearly drunk enough for the dissapointing selection of men and women around her. 

Sharon didn’t realize that she was staring at the sticky bar top until her cell phone slid into view. She blinked up at the bartender, surveying his scruffy mop of black hair and the unflattering goatee, and crossed him off her list immediately. 

He smiled and said, “Ride’ll be here in ten.” 

“Wonderful.” 

Sharon knocked back what remained of her drink and sucked an ice cube into her mouth, allowing it to click against her teeth as she laved at it with her tongue. It was cold and she was numb, but she couldn’t ignore how familiar the movements were—how much they resembled the way she’d roll a finely puckered nipple between her lips and teeth. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back slightly as she imagined how delicious a breast would taste against her tongue. 

She groaned and the sound echoed in her head. She had to stop thinking about sex or the throb between her legs would be more unbearable than the inevitable throb in her head. 

If only she had gone out with the female defense attorney instead, with her wavy blonde hair and pink mouth and her Chanel suits. 

She couldn’t think about that either—doing so would only conjure up images of another blonde woman in a position of power—at least not until she was reunited with her vibrator. 

After scribbling her name on her bill she stood, her body swaying slightly. Her head spun and she gripped the edge of the bar to steady herself. Had she really had _that_ much to drink? Apparently she had, if the amount on her closed tab had anything to say about it. As she gingerly turned around, she was confronted with the fuzzy image of one very blonde, very irritated deputy chief standing in front of her, arms crossed over her chest. 

Sharon sucked her teeth, shoulders sagging. It _would_ be just her luck that someone appealing would walk into the bar as she was on her way out. 

“Nice to see you too, Captain Raydor,” Brenda said, her arched eyebrow and quirked lip betraying the annoyance in her voice. 

“You missed last call, and I was just leaving,” Sharon said, slipping her purse a little higher up her shoulder. She made to step around the deputy chief but stumbled, careening her body against the other woman’s. 

“I know,” Brenda replied, her hands on Sharon’s waist to steady her on her feet. “I’m your ride.” 

Sharon blinked, staring for a moment and swallowing a downright filthy comment about riding the deputy chief, before she threw a glare over her shoulder. The bartender had the tenacity to abruptly turn away. “That’s not necessary. I’ll take a cab.” She burst out the door, her overheated body violently shuddering in the chill of the night air. 

“No, I don’t think you will.” Brenda curled her fingers around Sharon’s arm and tugged her toward the parking lot. “Imagine my surprise when, at 12:45 in the mornin’, a random man calls me from your phone, tellin’ me to come pick you up ‘cause you’ve had a little too much to drink.” 

“I didn’t ask him to call you.” 

“I didn’t think so.” Brenda pulled open the passenger door of her car, waiting until Sharon had deposited herself inside until she shut the door. When she slid into the driver’s seat, she smirked. “Nice fella. He mentioned I was listed in your phone as ‘my friend Brenda.’” 

Sharon’s face flushed. “Inside joke.” 

“It never gets old, bein’ the butt of a joke.” She slipped her key into the ignition. “Where do you live, Captain?”

Sharon recited her address as she settled back into the seat. The car smelled of vanilla and something else—Brenda’s perfume? She couldn’t be sure, but she liked it. It was subtle and feminine, a far cry from her date’s overwhelmingly pungent cologne. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, hoping to carry this scent with her for days, and decided that she would definitely be taking a break from dating men. 

Not that she’d be dating Brenda. 

Brenda eased her car out of the parking lot, falling smoothly into the light bustle of traffic. “Dare I ask what you’re doin’ gettin’ trashed on a work night?” 

“You can ask, but I probably won’t answer you given that judgmental tone of voice.” Sharon huffed, darting her eyes out the window. “We’re not friends. We don’t have to make small talk or talk about my shitty day and my horrible date. Is that all right with you?” 

“No, actually, it isn’t, since you were kind enough to ask.” Brenda let out an incredulous laugh and brushed aside an unruly curl of stubborn blonde hair that had dislodged itself from her ponytail. “You’re just a ray of sunshine when you’re drunk, aren’t you?” 

To her surprise and dismay, Sharon felt the barest hint of guilt begin to edge its way through her drunken haze. “I…apologize.” 

The car slowed to a stop at a red light, and the blonde’s pale face turned to study Sharon carefully before she smiled. “That’s more like it. I know we’re not friends, despite what my parents and your phone may say to the contrary, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be civil. I like to think if I had one too many glasses of wine, I could count on you for a ride.” 

There was that word again. Images of a naked, sweat-drenched Brenda sitting astride her hips flashed through her mind. She cleared her throat. “You have a husband for that, don’t you?” 

“There are some things you just don’t ask your alcoholic husband to do for you,” Brenda replied quietly, her foot on the accelerator.

Sharon nodded in agreement and considered, briefly, the possibility of coming to Brenda’s rescue if the situation were reversed—if only for that moment of superiority at seeing the deputy chief in a vulnerable position. She was surprised by how smug the woman _wasn’t_ ; she’d certainly earned it. 

“Why aren’t you gloating?” Sharon countered warily, settling her dizzy gaze on the blonde woman. Brenda’s glasses had slid down the slope of her nose and her trigger finger twitched at a sudden urge to push her frames back where they belonged. The surge of tenderness made her stomach hurt, so she added, “I bet you’re just _loving_ this.”

Brenda rolled her eyes, turning the car onto a quiet street. “Y’know, when that guy called me and told me to pick you up, I did kinda enjoy it, the thought of you all belligerent and uninhibited. But…it wasn’t how I imagined it.” Her voice softened. “You seem lonely, Sharon. Lonely and angry.” 

Sharon sneered, her buzz beginning to fade. “I don’t need your pity, Chief.” 

“Good, cuz I’m not givin’ it to you. I just never thought I’d actually see you bein’ human.” 

“Even wicked witches are flesh and blood.” Her tone lacked the venom she’d intended, sounding simply defeated instead. She turned away, slouching low in her seat.

They sat in silence for the remainder of the drive home, the quiet broken only by the steadily increasing throb of Sharon’s heart as they neared her house. She was overwhelmed by a barrage of thoughts, ranging from her desire for a cigarette and a good orgasm to wondering whether the deputy chief would escort her inside. 

It was a strangely dichotomous thing, wanting Brenda to stay as much as she wanted her to leave. 

She wasn’t quite sure how it happened, getting out of the car and dropping her keys in the grass and losing her glasses in the process. The other woman effortlessly looped the key ring around her finger and mercifully held up the frames. 

“I’ll just hold onto these till we get you inside, okay?” 

Sharon grumbled that it was not, in fact, okay, but she didn’t put up much of a fight. It seemed inevitable that this would happen, that she would need to acquiesce what little control she had and concede her need for help. 

She wasn’t exactly a damsel in distress, but lord only knew how long she’d have been fumbling in her front lawn if she’d taken a cab. Did that make Brenda her knight in shining—denim? 

While Brenda unlocked the door, having selected the correct key on the first attempt, Sharon pulled off her heels and let out a groan of unbridled satisfaction. She braced her hand against Brenda’s hip as her balance wavered before quickly snatching it away as if she’d been burned. 

“I can take it from here, Chief,” Sharon announced, pushing open the door and tossing her heels and her purse on the floor beside the obtrusive piece of furniture upon which she kept her mail in organized little piles. 

“If it’s all the same to you, I’m just gonna make sure you make it to your room in one piece.” 

Sharon scowled, rolling her eyes as she tramped up the stairs. “I don’t need a babysitter.” 

Brenda actually scoffed, and as Sharon lumbered up the stairs she wondered if Brenda was admiring the swell of her ass in her favorite little black dress. The thought, she mused, was not entirely unwelcome; at least _someone_ would be able to see it. 

“I’m a police officer, Sharon. It’s my duty to ensure your safety…and that includes makin’ sure you don’t asphyxiate on your own vomit.” 

Sharon barked out a laugh and steered herself into the first dark room on her left, not bothering to flip on the light switch before she tumbled onto the bed. “What are you gonna do, Chief? Hold back my hair while I throw up?” 

Brenda switched on the little lamp that resided atop her vanity, keen eyes taking a moment to survey the layout of her bedroom. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Brenda replied, pulling the elastic out of her hair. Sharon watched, transfixed, as the other woman shook out her curls. She gulped as Brenda crossed over to the bed and remained motionless as the other woman picked up her hand and slid the brown hair tie over her wrist. “Somehow I get the impression that you’d rather I don’t stay for that part.” 

Sharon shivered when the other woman released her arm. “You sound offended that I’d like to keep what little remains of my dignity intact.” 

The deputy chief gave an exaggerated eye roll. Brenda headed for the adjoining bathroom, and Sharon’s gaze fixated on how the denim of her jeans looked as though it had been painted on. There were no panty lines and Sharon mulled over the possibility that the other woman wasn’t wearing any. 

Arousal roared in her ears at the very thought of it and she rolled onto her back, pressing her hands against her eyes. Had it been anyone else, Sharon would have had _her_ on her back. 

Had it been anyone else, Sharon knew she wouldn’t have wanted them so desperately. 

A thump beside the bed pulled Sharon’s hazy focus back to the present. Brenda had located the small, thankfully empty trash bin, adjusting it so that it was lined up with Sharon’s pillow. 

“Just in case,” Brenda muttered. She twisted that damnable mouth of hers, studying the older woman intently. “Do you—I mean, should I help you with your dress?” 

Sharon had intended to raise an eyebrow—to tell her off at least—but she knew, just _knew_ by the blush creeping across Brenda’s cheeks, that her face had taken on a seductive expression that left no question about what Sharon truly thought of that idea. “Go ahead, Chief.” 

To her credit, the blonde bit her lip, tucked her hair behind her ears, and took a step away from the bed. “I meant with your pajamas. You’re gonna be uncomfortable sleepin’ in that dress.” 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, the rational voice that kept her sane reminded her that Brenda was her married straight superior officer and that the distancing tactic was, in fact, what she really needed. But Sharon wasn’t feeling particularly rational and so she pursed her lips in disapproval. “I’ll live. You can go on home to your husband now. I can take care of myself.” 

“He doesn’t even know I’m gone,” Brenda mumbled, and for a moment Sharon wondered if she sensed some sort of marital discord. Before she could open her mouth to ask, Brenda continued, “D’you need anythin’ else? Before I go?” 

Sharon needed a lot of things in that moment, but a wave of groggy dizziness swept over her. Her tongue felt like sandpaper in her mouth. She noticed a glass of water on the nightstand. Had that always been there, or had Brenda retrieved that from the bathroom? She felt hot all over, a combination of the booze and the intensity of that brown-eyed stare. She shook her head. “No.” 

“All right then. G’night, Captain.” 

As Brenda switched off the lamp, Sharon rose to her elbows, entranced by the silhouette of her body against the light in the hallway. “Thanks, Brenda.” 

“Anytime, Sharon.” 

The captain was asleep by the time Brenda let herself out of the house. 

When she ambled slowly into the kitchen the next morning, head pounding mercilessly, Sharon wasn’t sure if her desire to throw up could be attributed entirely to her hangover given the intensity of her mortification at her own behavior. 

She was never going to drink again.

She reached for the tin of pre-ground coffee, wincing at the sound of her slippers shuffling against the tile, and paused when she saw the note propped up on the counter beside two shining white aspirin. 

_Took the liberty of getting your coffeemaker ready for you--_ Sharon peered inside, where the filter had already been filled with grounds. She smirked, flipped on the machine, and resumed reading. _I’m going to need a ride home on Saturday night after I go for a drink, but feel free to come early if you’d like to join me. –Your friend, Brenda._

Sharon set down the note and deeply inhaled the scent of brewing coffee. After taking the proffered aspirin, she leaned back against the kitchen counter and pondered Brenda’s little missive. 

Friendship with Brenda Leigh Johnson could be complicated-- _very_ complicated—but Sharon couldn’t deny that the prospect had a certain appeal. She couldn’t have the deputy chief exactly the way she wanted her (or could she?), but the thought of having a friend (or at least someone to save her from the embarrassment of having to drink alone) wasn’t entirely unfathomable. 

With a smile that only made her head pound harder, Sharon decided that she could make an exception about never drinking again…on Saturday night.

\---


End file.
